Tangled Threat. Heather Graham
had opted to apply to the New York office of the Bureau specifically because it was far, far away from the state of his birth.
The New York City office didn’t usually handle events in Florida, unless a criminal had traveled from New York down to the southern state. Florida had several field offices—including a multimillion-dollar state-of-the-art facility in Broward County. That was south—but Orlando had an exceptional office, close enough to the Frampton place. And there were more offices, as well.
Even if the Frampton Ranch and Resort was in a relatively isolated part of the state, a problem there would generally be handled by a more local office.
“Frampton Ranch and Resort,” he heard himself say. And this time, years of training and experience kicked in—his voice was perfectly level and emotionless.
It was true: he sure as hell knew it and the area. The resort was just a bit off from—or maybe part of—what people considered to be the northern Ocala region, where prime acreage was still available at reasonable prices, where horse ranches were common upon the ever-so-slightly rolling hills and life tended to be slow and easy.
There were vast tracts of grazing ground and great live-oak forests and trails laden with pines where the sun seemed to drip down through great strands of weeping moss that hung from many a branch. It could be considered horse country, farm country and ranch county. There were marshes and forests, sinkholes and all manner of places where a body might just disappear.
The Frampton ranch was north of Ocala, east of Gainesville and about forty-five minutes south of Olustee, Florida, where every year, a battle reenactment took place, drawing tourists and historians from near and far. The Battle of Olustee, won by forces in the state; the war had been heading toward its final inevitable conclusion, and then time proved that victory had been necessary for human rights and the strength and growth of the fledgling nation, however purposeless the sad loss of lives always seemed.
Reenactors and historians arrived in good numbers, and those who loved bringing history to life also loved bringing in crowds and many came for the campgrounds. The reenactment took place in February, when temperatures in the state tended to be beautiful and mosquito repellent wasn’t as much a requirement as usual. During the winter season—often spring break for other regions—the area was exceptionally popular.
The area was beautiful.
And the large areas of isolation, which included the Frampton property, could conceal any number of dark deeds.
He’d just never thought he’d go back to it.
Certainly, time—and the path he had chosen to take in life—had helped erase the horror of the night they had come upon the body of Francine Renault hanging from the History Tree and his own subsequent arrest. He’d been so young then, so assured that truth spoke for itself. In the end, his parents—bless them—had leaped to the fore, flying into action, and their attorney had made quick work of getting him out of jail after only one night and seeing that his record was returned to spotless. It was ludicrous that they had arrested him; he’d been able to prove that it would have been impossible for him to have carried out the deed. Dozens of witnesses had attested to the fact that he couldn’t have been the killer, he’d been seen by so many people during the hours in which the murder must have taken place. He could remember, though, sitting in the cell—cold, stark, barren—and wondering why in God’s name they had arrested him.
He discovered that there had been an anonymous call to the station—someone stating that they had seen him dragging Francine Renault into the woods. The tipster had sworn that he would appear at a trial as a witness for the prosecution, but the witness had not come to the station. Others had signed formal protests, and the McGoverns’ attorney had taken over.
So many people had come forward, indignant, furious over his arrest.
But not Maura. She had been gone. Just gone. He couldn’t think of the Frampton Ranch and Resort without a twinge of pain. He had never been sure which had broken him more at the time—the arrest or the fact that Maura had disappeared as cleanly from his life as any hint of daylight once night had fallen.
They had been so young. It had been natural that her parents whisked her away, and maybe even natural that neither had since tried to reach the other.
But there were times when he could still close his eyes and see her smile and be certain that he breathed in the subtle scent of her. Twelve years had gone by; he wasn’t even the same person.
Egan was unaware of his reflections.
“Detective Michael Flannery is lead investigator now. He was on the case when you were arrested for the crime, but he wasn’t lead.”
“I know Flannery. We’ve communicated through the years, believe it or not. I almost feel bad—he suffered a lot of guilt about jumping the gun with me.”
“He’s with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement now, with some seniority and juice, so it seems,” Egan informed him. “Years ago, when the murder took place, the federal government wasn’t involved. Flannery doesn’t want this crime going unsolved. He knows you’re in this office now. His commander told me that he keeps in touch with you.” Egan paused. “It doesn’t sound as if you have a problem with him—you don’t, right?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
Even as a stunned kid—what he had been back then—Brock had never hated Detective Flannery for being one of the men who had come and arrested him.
Flannery had been just as quick to listen to the arguments that eventually cleared Brock completely of any wrongdoing. While Brock knew that Flannery was furious that he had been taken and certain that there had been an underlying and devious conspiracy to lead him and his superiors so thoroughly in the wrong direction, he had to agree that, at the time, Brock had appeared to be a ready suspect.
He’d had a fight with Francine that day, and it had been witnessed by many people. He hadn’t gotten physical in any way, but his poor opinion of her, and his anger with her, had probably been more than evident—enough for him to be brought in for questioning and to be held for twenty-four hours at any rate.
“I’m curious how something that happened so long ago can relate to the cases happening now,” Brock said.
“It may not. The remains of the dead girl found in the laundry might have been the work of one crazed individual or an acquaintance seeking vengeance, acting out of jealousy—a solitary motive. It might be coincidence the way she was found—or maybe a killer was trying to throw suspicion upon a particular place or person. But...a lot of the same individuals are still there now who were there when Francine Renault was killed.”
“Donald Glass—he’s around a lot, though he does spend time at his other properties. Fred Bentley—I imagine he’s still running the works. Who else is still there?” Brock asked.
Egan handed him a pile of folders. “All this is coming to your email, as well. There you have those who are in residence—and dossiers on the victims. Yes, Glass and Bentley are still on the property. There are other staff members who never left—Millie Cranston, head of Housekeeping. Vinnie Marshall, upgraded to chef—after Peter Moore’s death, I might add. And then...” He paused, tapping the folders. “You have some old guests who are now employees.”
“Who?”
“Mark and Nils Hartford,” Egan told him. “Both of them report directly to Fred Bentley. Mark has taken over as the social director. Nils is managing the restaurants—the sit-down Ranch Roost and the Java Bar.”
Brock hadn’t known that the Hartford brothers—who’d seemed so above the working class when they’d been guests—were now employed at the very place where they had once loved to make hell for others.
“Flannery said this is something he hadn’t mentioned to you. One of your old friends—or acquaintances—Rachel Lawrence is now with FDLE. She’s been working the murder and the disappearances with him.”
“Rachel? Became...a